"thorough" poems
What's it take
These days
To write a poem
That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest
Is it those excessively long words?
The ostentatiously loquacious
Platitudinous ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?
Is it perhaps...
the "creativity"
of varied spacing
or... could it be..... the lack
of capitalization
the loathsome little letters
screaming out
hey, look at us!
... or maybe it's
the punctuation marks,
littered, haphazardly
through the text
(whether used correctly)
or, theyre not?!
despite worrds mispeled
and a grammar might is broken
can these gimmicks increase interest
though miswritten or misspoken?
Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
(or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Which
Heard by herds
Raise the
Praise for which we
Privately, desperately
Pray
Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism
Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes
Well, maybe not...
those gems are often ignored
cast-aside, unread, even abhorred
Why?
Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
of "the right way"
to write
to speak
to act
to live
to (fill in the blank)
No, what the modern world needs
is
Negation!
Contradiction!
Resistance!
Revolt!
And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Different
Varied
Altered
Adjusted
Changed up way
Line
After line
Of synonyms
over
and
over
and
over
again
-----
What's it take
These days
To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?
But more importantly:
What's it take
To make my poem go viral?
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:17 AM UTC
Childish eyes see deep into me,
they know me,
they understand me,
understand what I'm going thorough,
what we are all going through.
They were the eyes of an empath.
We knew each other before and we will know each other again.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
I want you to make me feel naked everywhere
saying things that make necks hot, face hot
don't have to be so ****** don't have to touch
Want to? Do so, though, don't be so mechanical
swim on, flow on, spill on, no pushing
the things said should tear open, pop seams
wonder what's inside, beating
running, ebbing, draining, no inspecting, no prodding
a thorough investigation with eyes, words
make the most difference, words dig the farthest
fill the fastest, reach to ends that previously had
no end
the end
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moonè’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
7.9k
You’re a sycophant for a selfie.
selfish daily rants are of the plenty
up here.
(Up where?)
out there in the world wide-
who cares it’s everywhere.
There’s no room for you to hide.
so beware! and be wary of what you confide.
I’ve seen words on their heads and their intent on its side.
Your rambles are a gamble, every un-thorough thought
is a stance you take with pride
on something you were never taught.
Did you go find it out by yourself?
I doubt that. Just loud chat from those sat out around you
was enough to change your point of view. so will you choose?
Or will it not really be you? did you construe this opinion or did it construe yours?
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
1109
I fit for them—
I seek the Dark
Till I am thorough fit.
The labor is a sober one
With this sufficient sweet
That abstinence of mine produce
A purer food for them, if I succeed,
If not I had
The transport of the Aim—
5.9k
Eight pounds of thorough *******
split between two brothers of Zaragoza, Spain
the love for substance has lost all of it's hope
time for family split between hours of dope
there was a newborn with wings, without a full day
because the love for substance stood directly in the way.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
Mixed messages
Confused conscience
Swerving signal
Thorough thinking
Optimistic offering
Hesitant Hell
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that if the phrase “adding insult to injury” had a feeling,
that would be it.
i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it sounds like “hands up, don’t shoot,” like “i can’t breathe,”
like blood hitting a pavement that seems as though it was built
to catch those droplets.
i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it tastes like skittles and arizona tea,
four years old but still carrying the fresh sting of a wound just opened.
i imagine that it tastes
like history repeating itself,
like seeing your son or daughter recycled each week
on every news report, on every tv station.
each time it is a different body,
but it is always the same hand pulling the trigger,
the same black blood being spilled,
the same cries left unheard;
we shout “black lives matter”
and yet, still,
they cut them too short.
i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it looks like a web of lies too thick to cut through —
every strand another weapon that he did or did not have,
another order that he did or did not follow,
another sin that he did or did not commit;
the only black they care about
is the color of the ink they use
to draw your angel-headed boy
a set of horns.
i imagine that it looks like evidence hidden,
like sparknotes-type skim-throughs labeled “thorough investigations,”
like another unindicted officer walking freely atop the cries of those
who charged into a battle they knew they would, but hoped they would not, lose.
a battle they have fought too many times before.
i imagine that it looks
like an empty chair at the dinner table,
like cold-blooded ****** disguised as justice
with the help of a blue hat and a badge.
i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but if you listen closely enough,
you can hear it
in every cautious goodbye she says to her children whenever they leave the house,
or in the silence that those goodbyes used to fill.
can you hear it?
you will have to push past the shouts
of the big bold letters that they want you to believe.
somewhere,
somewhere in there,
a black mother’s heart is crying.
it is a gentle, hushed cry
that the world does not want to hear.
but the tears are still just as wet.
(a.m.)
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
Unmotivated by society,
Bored of this sobriety.
Let's go eye to eye and see,
Every single side of me.
Because without some thorough inspection,
Emotion goes by
without detection.
Forgive and forget,
All that you can.
For without you,
I feel like I'm ******
A forgotten man,
In a desolate land.
Has only one want
And that's to be yours,
Sometime
Within this life span.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 12:37 AM UTC
I've seen you in striped white,
I've seen you in black wrap-around tops,
I've seen you in stilettos,
I've seen you in Fitflops.
I've seen you in the bluest of days,
I've seen you in the rainiest of nights,
I've seen you in the face of the sun,
I've seen you in the wind-full of kites.
I've seen you in the trajectory of life,
I've seen you stare at me with care,
I've seen you in the droplets of water,
I've seen you in every castle in the air.
I've seen you dreaming,
I've seen you back in reality,
I've seen you physically Earthy,
I've seen you emotionally Mars-y,
I've seen you sad and jubilant,
I've seen you troubled, but kept a smile,
I've seen you doubled - in poker,
I've seen you gone crazily wild.
I've seen you in green-blinking nails,
I've seen you return my stutters,
I've seen you stand tall - confident,
I've seen you slouch - don't matter.
I've seen you looking into empty spaces,
I've seen you looking into a tasty plate,
I've seen you doubt yourself,
I've seen you believing in fate.
I've seen you in the bakery,
I've seen you in a factory,
I've seen you in your beauty,
I've seen you in your most ball-sy.
I've seen you in the bus,
I've seen you read,
I've seen you pick up a microphone,
I've seen you speaking with speed.
I've seen you with a newspaper,
I've seen you with an iPad,
I've seen you with a t-shirt,
I've seen you stylishly clad.
I've seen you work hard,
I've seen you studied irresponsibly,
I've seen you proud,
I've seen you flicker embarrassingly.
I've seen you here,
I've seen you there,
I've seen you near,
I've seen you everywhere.
I've seen enough,
I've seen you in extremes,
I've seen you thorough,
I've seen you in teams.
I've seen you verily,
I've seen you truly,
I've seen so much inspiration,
I've seen you guilty.
I've seen "I've seen" 58 times,
I've seen you more than that few.
But I would've seen nothing more,
If I've seen none of you.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
I'm too despressed to notice I'm stressed out
Suppressed emotions inside, shouldn't let out
Seeing is believing but what I see isn't real
I am forced to accept these "realities" and ignore the way I feel
I don't mean to sadden, entertain, bore, or aggravate,
For a decade I find that this is how I communicate
The only way I can precisely speak out on the unhealthy pleasures
As the chemicals of my brain, they fornicate
These levels of relationships aren't supposed to be
It'll **** me sometime later, look at how it has ruined my personality
Seeing is believing, but you won't believe what I see
How can I act 'normal' when you won't acknowledge I can't do 'human being'
My animalistic compulsions are fuelled by my failing brain functions
Don't get too close cause I'll try to bite, I sympathise for your flesh when I malfuntion
Don't be scared, I'm not canibalistic, I just like to use my teeth
Humans scare me, I must defend myself, uh, I mean, to smile and eat
I'm not afraid to say it, but I'm scared when I'm saying it, I have to say
I have been observing your mundane human actions, I really don't want to be put away
I always feel foreign, alienated, out-of-place
But because I'm "considerate," I have to bite my tongue to save me some face
I'm too stressed out to notice that I'm depressed
Wanting mental soundessnes, yes, peace, my hallucinations don't give me rest
My taughts speed down their highway, my delusions are always a-fest
They inflict beneath my exterior, but for the public eye, I wear a crest
"I wear my skin well, don't you think?" I lie, becuase it ill-fits
I am totally normal, "I'm fine." Can't change the fact I'm a misfit.
The beams that bear my bag of meat rust and thus begin to weaken
The lethal sagging's caused by the mental luggage, I'm not heard, even though I'm speaking
Many persons think that I'm overly paranoid, I must admit, that I am
You would be the same way too, if about your health, no one ever gives a ****
Help doesn't come, because their 'laters' always becomes 'nevers'
I am not that superhuman, can't keep myself together, forever
They claim that they would help me, some way, somehow, but their actions never initiate
Someday, sometime, it would all be over, through a thorough death physical or mental
Oh yes, I'm still believing, you can't accuse me of not having faith.
I look forward to my healing, but all the while, my brain chemicals fornicate.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
1
*Gongs and drums sound rambunctious,
a wild rhythm tears the silence of the night,
a slow number first, then in quick time
racing fast,everything ends in a blast.
his self control lost, he dances like one possessed,
in the moon lit places and shadows alike.
This angst is not his alone, he feels,
as if mad at the way the world these days is.
Freedom of a special kind, it was, catharsis,
drums sounding mysterious, made life different.
2
Once when he and his girl were making love
deep in his veins drums rumbled,
and he couldn't but stop and listen,
she was curious,"What is this, what do you listen?"
smiling, he resumed his dance
thorough the valley and plains, like wind,
to the tune of temple drums,
his hair flying and sweat pouring like rain,
she could catch the change of rhythm
intense love was there, in the depth of fury.
Then, they ended up panting,then lying quiet.
holding each other tight,she said;
"you are like one possessed, fantastic,"
but he had felt the presence of a third,
he felt in his bones,
a benign female presence, who is she?
3
The oracle holding a sword with a shining blade,
wearing a red silk turban and a white **** cloth, told:
"It's the possession of a woman, a wild spirit,
her songs and dance were snuffed out
at a young age, when it slowly emerged,
it happened at a time we don't know when,
a kindred spirit, your tumult suits her soul."
the oracle was in a trance when he opened his eyes,
"Not a curse, a blessing, symbiotic it is"
the oracle threw a bit of holy ash on him and said:
"Well son, in you Devi, the mother goddess
is pleased, this spirit will survive,
her speakings will come out from you,
all will be just fine, being kind you received her,
so pleased and contented she is, wouldn't disturb"
They walked together, the woman without a body
to fulfill her dreams or sing her songs,
at times of loneliness the drums sound,
she comes in to his tumultuous soul, he makes her alight,
in their entwined destiney, he sings her songs, they dance.*
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
The love of a grandson
to a grandmother
is a special bond.
It cannot be broken.
A grandmother's presence
in the eyes of a grandson
makes him behave
more like he should behave.
He looks up to her.
I look up to you.
I often wonder
what experiences you've gone thorough.
What has made you into the you today?
You've gone through so much yet,
I've only known you
for 22 years of it.
Through that time,
you've shown me
what a great grandparent is.
You attended most of my
Concerts
Plays
and Musicals
with loving support
Every birthday,
Christmas,
Valentine's Day,
and Easter
without ever missing a beat
you would contact me.
I thank you
So
SO
SOOOOOO MUCH!
I often feel guilty
for not always contacting back.
I really need to get better at that.
As a kid
there was nothing better
than looking forward
to your Christmas presents.
The science toys,
the cookbooks,
and of course,
the Hot Wheels.
There was nothing better to me
than knowing
that I would get a new track to put together
or a new car.
As I've matured,
so have the presents.
the Alinea cookbook
is like a sacred document
I look at it often
and it always amazes me.
Thank you for inventing
"Grandma's Orange Stuffing"
Its always my favorite part
of the Thanksgiving feast.
(Way better than dad's)
Although this poem
isn't very poem-y
I hope you enjoy it
for the rest of your life.
You're the only real grandparent I ever had,
and I love you with all my heart.
Thank you for all you've done.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
A child wakes up , to mosquito bites,
and Christ-on-a-bike-it’s-diwali , the fiesta of lights.
the welcome vibes of halcyon tarried
as hugs and gifts and smiles are carried,
and waving her wrinkles mid-air ,daadi
says today! god , to his land was ferried.
Afar, the bronze herald of worship time,
the temple bell goes off in a celestial chime.
and cometh the priest , for the fire-ritual,
line my pockets now , come on , be spiritual.
but duh! your dhoti hast no pockets , saintly dummy;
tsk.. fret ye not , for it goes straight into my tummy.
mid-morning now , and mummy’s high-strung;
‘dust it well and dust it thorough and dust it till you burst a lung’.
‘garam pakode’ !! cries papa in his croaking tenor ,
‘but one by one’ and now he begins with the manners.
mummy is the last one , picking over the bones,
she always has been , for what a family she owns.
A muezzin somewhere cries the holy decree
heads bow down and a pigeon flies free,
from the onion dome , below the staccato claps
‘Ooparwala ! … ‘ the muezzin gasps ,
and ‘Ooparwala!.. ‘ a crowd chants in tow ,
and ‘Oops ! … ‘ the bird sheds it’s something and *****
soars high , and takes a bow .
hey presto! the night has come.
the moonless night of the homecoming lord.
sweetmeats and sugars and syrups and us ,
laddu-barfi , well , that strikes a chord .
Lakshmi , her owl , the glutton god with his mouse ,
revered an’ pleased an’ fed an’ flattered ,
and coaxed never to leave the house
while out there , bombs and crackers burst and batter.
The witch’s hour already , and the man ain’t home yet
the lord is home , to get things straight,
while the men all out on a greedy conquest;
pennies on the dollar , unwavering faith still,
for the beckoning bait .
A child wakes up , to mosquito bites
gone now is the carnival of lights.
a goddess fled , a father bled
a child scrapes off the waxy remains ,
the leftovers of candles ,pains, and no gains.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
_While most beauty pageants are strictly for girls_,
there are a growing number that include boys as well;
[often, age divisions
for boys run through age 6
with very few going beyond that due to lack
of mutual participation in the rampant molestation];
Age divisions will often have names
such as Baby Miss, Petite Miss, Little Miss &c.
Age divisions broken down as follows: 0–11 months,
12–23 months, 1-3 years, 4–6 years, 7–9 years,
10–12 years, 13–15 years, and 16–18 years;
For boys, sometimes two age divisions
would be merged such as 0–3 years, 4–6 years, etc.
Depending on which type of pageant system
is entered, contestants will spend about two hours
or less in the actual competition. Typically,
pageants have a guideline of no more than one
and a half minutes on stage per child for beauty
or formal evening wear; talent usually limited
to two minutes or less;
with the exceptional allowance
of two and a half to three minutes;
In glitz pageants, it is expected that girls
have different routines for every segment
of competition composed of different
movements sometimes described as sassy walks
and pretty feet among other names. ****** expressions can include liberal amounts of duck face; often referred to
as "pro-am modeling". Big hair (including fake hair),
flawless makeup, spray tans, flippers [fake teeth],
and nail extensions are also expected of contestants;
Glitz pageants may best be described as anything goes;
groping, molestation, **** group molestation,
forced oral & ********* virginity checks are routine; any
hyperactive child & also the parent subject
to a thorough, prolonged cavity search;
In contrast, natural pageants have
fairly strict guidelines regarding clothing,
makeup, hair extensions, etc.
Programs such as _National American Miss_
forbid any makeup other than non-shiny lip gloss & mascara;
for girls on stage. This modeling style is referred to as Miss America style [Some pageants have a prescribed
set of movements while others
allow more latitude in how girls will use the stage or runway]
Miss Tanguita translated
_Miss Child Bikini,_
is held in Barbosa, Santader,
Colombia as part of the annual del Rio Suarez Festival
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 10:55 PM UTC
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon
the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite
Ballad of Hamilton beginning—
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!
From Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my “winsome Marrow,”
“Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.”
“Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow’s banks let her herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
“There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
“What’s Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
“Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O’er hilly path, and open Strath,
We’ll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
“Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow,
The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There’s such a place as Yarrow.
“Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we’er there, although ’tis fair,
’Twill be another Yarrow!
“If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
’Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow!”
3.6k
1133
The Snow that never drifts—
The transient, fragrant snow
That comes a single time a Year
Is softly driving now—
So thorough in the Tree
At night beneath the star
That it was February’s Foot
Experience would swear—
Like Winter as a Face
We stern and former knew
Repaired of all but Loneliness
By Nature’s Alibit—
Were every storm so spice
The Value could not be—
We buy with contrast—Pang is good
As near as memory—
3.4k
Sleep like when quiet
Monopolized your ears
Except maybe a ting
An occasional ting
Of a wind chime
Sleep like when diligence
Granted you rest
From your day of completions
You were so thorough and
Always on time
Sleep safe
With the noises and clatter
Of all you hold dear
Knowing they are close
Sleep like when exhaustion
Squeezed the last lucid bit out
Made you pay for your excess
With a punishment
Kinder than most
Sleep with innocence
Not only in the night
But when dust swims across
The warm, thick daylight
Sleep in transit
While the bright yellow dash
Unzips dark highways
And your warm forehead
Bounces on the cold window
Sleep like the way
It takes me now
Lords over all
You ever become
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Headless chickens running aimless toward the almighty dollar
Blindly staring at the knife"s stainless steel amidst all the squaller
My thirsty soul argues against my numb skull to hold a thorough audition
They lewdly feud about potential candidates accrued to search for recognition
They conclude on a suspicion they mutually feared as a result of blind ambition
Search preludes the admission, that I found my dream car with no keys for ignition
Don"t question authority especially when it's the majority
Everyone knows the world is flat and let's just leave it at that
I bought water from you now I have ice to sell
I have a great story but no one worthy to tell
Hindsight should really be at least twenty fifteen
Because to admit we just don"t know is too obscene?
Blissful ignorance"s repugnant scent wafting through the cave
Mindless sheople"s chainlinked brains all dancing at the rave
Fire flickering Shadow puppets tastefully riding the next wave
Puppeteer wizard behind the curtain telling them how to behave
Misaligned redcoated frontline soldiers falsely labeled as brave
Life"s ironic conundrum puzzle, choosing which children to save
Diseased cement steadily drying in a world ever ready to pave
Hungrier than I"ve ever been, yet sickly devoid of things to crave
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 5:06 AM UTC
Poetry.
A form of catharsis used to
Subtly touch
Violently choke
Mentally ****
Words that cut so deep making the heartless feel
Words screaming with emotions leaving you paralyzed
Words gracefully gliding down the side of your cheek forcing you to smile
Captured in whatever trap the poet wants you in; victimized
Feeding into every word of the poet so easily
Thriving off the beauty that is poetry
Until you’re shouting
Take me!
The art of poetry now flows thorough my body
Becoming intertwined in their words
I absolutely LOVE poetry
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
it's inherent ontology, it's not even necessary to process inherited ontology; inherited ontology can be riddled and lost to abstraction like the invention of crosswords as antidote to the drilling-in of the Bible... but inherent ontology? inherent is a tautological invitation to italicise the word ontology - tautology anti synonym - the doubly stressed, point origin secured, but from two adjacent / adjective angles - well, might as well be a compound, the adjacent-adjective, when language meets math and math meets.... d'uh... or simply arithmetic, because that's how it's easily translated, arithmetic is grey people and math the rich... language the poets and grammar the farts.
a shortened critique of pure reason -
a) based on phenomena
(things most likely talked about)
and
b) based of noumenna
(things least likely talked about)....
i.e. a) and the ego implant,
and b) the god implant -
likewise the zealots on either side,
bleep bleep beep r r e r s.... and muslims...
i forgot to mention that Kant forgot
to mention the trigonometric foundations
as justifying owning a villa or whatnot,
the same foundations of having
the implant ego secured and willed
are the same parameters of the
implant god secured and thought
the point being dynamic parallelism,
mid-way between cosine and sine
rigid fluctuation tangents occur,
the ridiculous abbreviations, the p.s., and ibis.;
you're basically born with ego
or you're born with god -
there's no woof woof Pavlov chime chime in between -
ring-a-ding-ding-surprise?
there's no side-winding to create cinema -
being born with ego is explained clearly, coerced
with monetary affairs;
being born with god is explained "clearly", coerced
with murderers, lastly -
no psychological theory will box-me-in
given the lost tribalism and the usage of
the trans-valuation of the synonym of thing -
with money came slang - and all thorough evils,
with slang, synonyms, antonyms, critique of vocab.,
Arizona in the ******* Amazon -
i'm basically saying what Kant said:
god isn't uncool or whatever atheism tends to forget,
it's an implant of functioning, we can't rid it
by argument, and we certainly can't accept it
by prayer - unless we're dumb enough to do either
for worth of understanding tornadoes;
because that's were Seymour Hoffman started for me,
filming Twister.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
Make sure when I see you,
(Keep one eye on the door.)
To dust off the welcome mat,
(and clean out those closets thorough)
(Never know who may be watching,)
Appearances so clean.
(Call it luck, or chance, or fate,)
I call it conspiracy.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
i always end up like this
no matter what type of event i'm at
sitting, alone, in the back
but this time, there
on the church basketball court
converted into a dancefloor
just as roughly as i also was converted
into a church dance attendee
in dark grey corduroys
and a crimson dress shirt
(missing a collar button)
not to mention a shave
(far too thorough, as i always am)
and a haircut by my uncles hand-
it was there,
that i was choking back tears,
tears caused by glancing up momentarily,
javing five or more beautiful girls
meet my eyes, and smile invitingly
(telling me to stand)
but still being unable to drag myself out of that chair
and walk over to them.
an inability caused by her,
the one i still love(d)
wherever she happens to be.
but, this inability to move
is not her fault.
we're over
and i'm a free man,
so i make my mind up,
wipe my eyes,
and stand;
rising to look at the faces
of the two who are telling me
to walk, to tap, to ask, to dance
and
without a word
i walk into that crowd
leaving them behind.
but
she's still here.
and, keeping that in mind
i enjoy myself
but every face
every conversation
dissolves,
as my footsteps do-
as the music does-
at the end of each song
©Brandon Webb
2012
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC